A Question of God and Man
by Maysa Neci
Summary: Severus Snape appears suddenly, as though he'd been thrown from the heavens. One moment he's there, the next, he's not. After the third turn of the ring, he materializes from the air. "Potter, what in Merlin's name have you done to me?"


"Death is not romantic … Death is not anything … It's the absence of presence, nothing more … the endless time of never coming back … a gap you can't see, and when the wind blows through it, it makes not a sound …"  
>- Tom Stoppard<p>

_A Question of God and Man, by Tara Anne_

_August 2011_

**PROLOGUE**

The man was not unattractive. If Al squints enough, and tilts his head to the side, the nose almost seems patrician, and the sallow skin pales to cream. When he does, the beetle-black eyes (like burnished coal, so bright with fire, with acumen, with Slytherin cunning) bore into him, and the sneer fades around the edges. Then, maybe, the man is smiling; nothing more than a lovely man with a lovely past.

The picture's edges are thin and yellowed, but the man still smiles out at him. Always mouthing something Al can't make out, the same words rattling off the spy's tongue. He's tried to copy them with a child's dedication, opening his mouth _just so_, mimicking the curl of the lips _like that_, but—it's always an inscrutability, shielded and tampered with. Magic radiates from the old photo like a drug, but over the years, it has faded. Soon, the charm will end, and it will appear as a Muggle photograph, lifeless and still as death. At least now, Albus can pretend.

The books tell him next to nothing, and what he does gleam is hopelessly riddled with slanderous odium. Though his father tried, he was never able to clear the Death Eater's name; pestilence coiled in men's hearts and flared within women's hearts, and they blamed the man for Great Dumbledore's fall.

Years ago, when Al still kissed his mother goodnight and begged his father to tell him sweet, delightful stories, he first asked his dad about the man—Severus. His father had narrowed his eyes and ruffled his hair, turning away his queries with Slytherin-care. After all, his father has never really spoken of The War.

His mother had exhaled softly and said little. Small, ascetic things, like how he was a fine Potion's Master, or how he always grimaced and sneered. How he hopelessly favored the Slytherins. Things of no real consequence, like a child's sketch of wrought scribbles. Carefully woven truths with enough omitted words to weave a threadbare image of the man's life.

When he had asked Uncle Ron, his uncle just had sneered and muttered under his breath. Things Al didn't want to know, didn't need to hear. Still doesn't.

His Auntie was kinder. She had chased him with kisses and, as he scrubbed at his cheeks, had told him little tidbits, small phrases that alone are rubbish, but together hold a trove. She always was cunning that way.

It seemed that no one really knew Severus Snape.

Al can't help but wonder why he was named for a vague shadow of a man; a man who had been hollowed out, wrung of sin, and hung to dry in shame after his death. Lily, who is just a silly girl, teases him. She insists that Al must be obsessed with the man. But she _is_just a silly little girl, after all, lovesick and heart-wearied, who cannot see past her blinders.

He knows not of the past, of the ambiguous man. He has only heard rumors and larger-than-life stories whispered in darkened rooms. Al knows better than believe them. He needs a primary source, someone who can tell him the unveiled truth. Who better than Severus Snape himself to light the way? Al shouldn't let an inane thing like death stop him.

**ONE**

The stone is cool in his hands, smooth like tanned leather. It draws upon his magic when he rolls it in his palms, almost a quickening. Albus could swear that it arched against his fingertips, as though begging to be released.

He toys with the curio for a moment. Wiping away a smudge of dirt, he inspects the ring. It appears to be the true thing. The band is bent, but the stone is whole and etched white with a symbol.

Al slides the ring on his finger and, holding his hand out, examines it.

Yes, this is it. This is what he has spent years searching for.

This is the beginning.

-0-

Severus Snape appears suddenly, as though he'd been thrown from the heavens. One moment he's there, the next, he's not. After the third turn of the ring, he materializes from the air.

When he does, he looks confused and doubtful. Then, he looks at Al. His eyes narrow, and his mouth pinches.

"Potter, what in Merlin's name _have_you done to me?" His voice is low and sinfully smooth baritone. It sends chills down Al's spine.

Al smiles just a little bit. He might retain Severus longer than he has initially planned—already, the man was _interesting_.

"I'm Al, sir. Albus Severus Potter. And you are …?"

"None of your business." He eyes Al for a moment. "Am I to presume that Potter reproduced with that Weasley chit?"

Al laughs. Severus sighs and sits down against Al's chair.

"I should have known. The pair always did like to wreck unnecessary havoc." Severus looked at his hands, then at the room about him. He grimaced.

"I suppose that you are the same."

-0-

They visit Severus's home later that day. Two days pass, and they return again to live there after Al's father almost Flooed in on Severus at the apartment.

Severus's dilapidated house has a steep, sloping roof and a beast-like knocker. The inside is stark, filled only with dust and broken furniture. The window hangings are tattered, and everything reeks of rot. The roof leaks, too, and when it is wretchedly cold, icicles form on the ceiling. It's an unpleasant place, but a place where Severus can remain undiscovered. And Al isn't letting him out of his sight.

Upon entering, he slips off his shoes. The carpet is warm, the air chilled. Severus looks at him oddly.

Al looks back. "What?"

Severus sneers. "Nothing."

Al shrugs.

-0-

They divide up the house. Al takes a small bedroom with blue walls. Hauling his trunk to the foot of the bed, he turns to smile at Severus.

"Thanks."

Severus frowns. Al doesn't know if Severus likes him or hates him. He supposes that no one really knew how the man felt about them; he is too ambiguous a character to be held to normal standards.

"Don't," Severus commands him. He then turns on his heel and leaves, looking oddly like a bat.

-0-

Rose kisses his cheek and welcomes him into her home. She already has tea set up, and the biscuits arranged in artful displays on clean, white china. The lace curtains, pale pink walls, and frilly dollies remind him why he and James never ventured into Rose's childhood room.

He may just have to pull himself through a wringer to squeeze every last drop of virility left in his body, else he'll walk away from Rose's smelling of flowers and weaving daisy bands.

His cousin is a genteel hostess, asking only sweet questions in a demure voice. She flutters over him, plying him with fresh sweets, small fairy cakes, and biscuit, refilling his cup whenever it runs low. Like a Pureblood housewife, her queries are simple, easy to answer. She asks how he is, and if he will be returning to England soon. When he says that he will not, she nearly swoons before regaining her composure.

If it weren't for her mother's keen, Ravenclaw eyes, he might think her a nitwit.

But he knows his cousin well, and knows Rose's husband well enough, too. Al has learned to not acknowledge Rose's doll house act; he plays along instead, dancing like a fish around a hook.

When she asks him why he has been horribly unsociable and taciturn as of late, he only shrugs and sips at his tea.

"I've been involved with my work," he half-lies, and it is truth enough that it flows easily off his tongue.

It is only a slight omission. He is investigating the habits of a dead man, parting the shroud that conceals the man's secrets. And it is work, a delicate, surgical work.

The tea is hot against his palms, and curls through his stomach like warm broth, chasing away the chill. Perhaps, when he returns home, he will see if Severus would enjoy some tea.

-0-

He returns home to silence. The house is still, as though it were holding its breath.

And then, he passes through the threshold, and everything starts again in a great gasp. The wards hum in a feverish pitch, like cicadas in the press of summer. The doors and windows are locked tightly. The drapes are secured over the windows to the floor and walls; the weak glamours meant to wholly darken the house let in some dull light.

"Severus?" Al calls out. He tosses his cloak onto a nearby chair. He can get it later. "Severus?"

No answer.

Frowning, Al steps through the kitchen, and into the potions room.

Severus isn't there.

He tries the main office, and the bedroom. Opens Severus's door, and—

At first, he doesn't understand. Sees a glint of steel, and deep, pale wounds at his neck and wrists. Bloodless. Sees the short, quick hacks at his pale skin, quickly knitted back together seamlessly.

Severus is trying to cut himself.

Before Al realizes it, he's halfway across the room, screaming at Severus to stop, stop, _stop_! He yanks the knife out of Severus hands, and hurls it across the room. Bending, kissing at the mutilated skin. Whispering soft, foolish things to comfort himself and Severus.

But when he looks up at the man, his face is hard and his eyes are stony. He pulls his arms out from Al's grasp. Takes a step back.

"What," he says hoarsely, "have you done to me?"

Al can only shake his head and again draw close to Severus. He lifts the now-smooth arms and stares wondrously at the delicate, healed wrists.

"I-I don't know," he whispers. "I don't know."

-0-

Weeks pass in the estate without another incident. Al shadows Severus whenever possible, linger close to the ever-cool body, feeling the brush of Death in his shadow. He's afraid that Severus will try something again, and that, maybe, this time it will work.

Severus … tolerates it. He now talks to Al, once a blue moon. He answers inane questions while sifting through old parchment scrolls, absently allowing a slur of deep-toned, wonderful words to caress Al into a frenzied state (surely, Severus must know what his voice does to Al!).

Eventually, Al begins to read the older man. He can tell when Severus jokes or pretends to joke, and when he is actually interested in a topic. Little things like that. There's not much else to preoccupy them.

They talk over a steaming cuppa, trading carefully worded questions with carefully worded answers. And slowly, Severus begins to delve into Al's most secret places, his penetrating stare cutting through the fuzzy blanket of time, urging Al to recall _things_: his dreams, his nightmares; the first potion he made; his first memory; his mother and his family. The last always made Severus curl his lip in a sneer and scoff, "Those Weasels should stop polluting the gene pool! There are far too many Gryffindor dunderheads in the world already." And though the words were harsh, the other's tone had been warm and lightly mocking, and his eyes had held a distinct softness in the pink glow of pre-dawn.

That was one of Al's favorite memories.

On Tuesday morning though, when he had jolted out of sleep, Al found a new best memory.

It had been a nightmare, left over from his father's days, when a dark man walked the earth. He shook and wiped at his brow. A cold sweat. His palms were clammy, and he felt faint. He decided that he needed water. The kitchen wasn't too far away, and he wouldn't be able to remain there; sleep never answered his call after a nightmare.

The hallways were cool that night, and Al had rubbed his hands briskly over his arms. He shivered. He scuttled down the hallways faster, down the stairs and into the kitchen.

And had almost run into Severus.

Severus's eyes turned steely. "Watch where you're going."

And then, they dropped low, to his lips and his bare chest and his bony hips. And lower, and then back up. Severus had sneered at him once, weakly, and left.

And then, he knew what the weeks had meant, and recognized all the signs: the gentled sneers and warm tone, the comforting gestures and soft eyes … the ragged, hungry journey of his eyes over Al's exposed chest, the feral glint to his eyes and husky timbre.

Severus wanted Al.

And Al wanted Severus. Badly.

It was only a matter of time before someone gave in.

-0-

It happens on the night Severus offers him a decanter of aged whiskey. Then, the glasses titter and tinkle, spinning beneath a dusty chandelier, and the golden liquor fills the crystal tumblers one, two, three fingers high. The candlelight is dim (Less chance of being discovered, Severus murmurs darkly) and the shadows stretch their bony plumes in phantom flickers. The cool air tickles Al's bare feet, and he curls his toes beneath his body and curls his fingertips over his knees in search of some minute warmth. He shivers. The strong bow of the armchair, blanketed in tattered velvet, wards off the impending chill.

Well, at the very least, it helps some.

Severus sneers at him. "Are you not a wizard, or have you found refuge in your weaker blood?" He flicks his wand once, and a smooth, honeyed warmth pours over the top of his head, sloshes across his arms and chest, and pools in his belly and between his toes. Sighing, Al stretches out against the length of the chair, luxuriating in the warmth.

It's been some time since he truly last felt warm.

Twisting to face Severus, Al grins at him. "Thanks," he says.

Severus nods solemnly and levitates a glass of bourbon across the room. When Al first tastes it, it seems very … dull. Mild when compared to firewhiskey. Like Muggles, who lack the flare and spice of magic that peppers a wizard's movements, the irresistible power that seeps from beneath the skin to taint the very air.

After three glasses though, it all seems the same. Lost in a mist, Al feels his inhibitions give way along with his coordination. He sways in his seat and must press his palms flat against the cushion to retain his balance. The world swirls, and everything seems to dance. On some prenatal level, he recognizes that he is utterly pissed; he pushes aside his empty glass.

Severus watches him. Has been since Al stumbled upon him hours ago, since he offered Al a drink. He is wearing some flimsy little dressing gown; a rich, satiny charcoal robe with glittering runes along the sleeves and collar. It makes Severus's eyes seem deeper, penetrating, and the silver threads illuminate the rare gray spotting Severus's temples. He looks rather handsome, Al thinks.

As though sensing Al's thoughts, Severus shifts slightly, and the robe glints dimly in the light. He has sipped delicately at his own glass throughout this period. He reminds Al of the old aristocrats, inbred Purebloods with bountiful charm and tact.

Al twirls his glass in his palms. The crystal shines brightly, and the last bits of Muggle whiskey waxes and ebbs, as tides do. Beneath his thick lashes, he catches Severus staring at him. It fills him with something … unexplainable, something that leaves him with a light gut, heavy limbs, and a healthy dosage of murkiness. His mind further fogs, and he feels the last of his inhibitions fly from his reach, soaring forth from his chest to sink, unneeded, into the earth.

He licks his lips.

Severus's eyes glitter darkly.

Al opens his mouth, blindly. He speaks.

"Why won't you fuck me?"

The bourbon has loosened his tongue, a modicum too far. The slurred words leave a bitter aftertaste, and Al hastily washes his mouth out with the dregs in the glass, rolling the flavor around his teeth and tongue. Like molasses and smoke.

Severus stares openly, and Al lowers his eyes to his hands, which are wrapped too tight around the crystal; his knuckles are stained white, like large mountains against his smooth skin. Al's neck burns. He can't bear to see Severus's reaction.

Neither one says a word.

Al hears a glass clink and the swish of brocaded fabric over bare skin. It's hard not to imagine Severus naked, and even harder to keep his focus from straying. Soft, padding footsteps now, growing closer, and beneath it, the stiff rustle of silk. The glass in his hands groans lowly, and Al can see small fissures appear. He exhales; forcibly, he loosens his grip.

Now he sees bare feet; now clothed thighs; now a straining slit baring milky skin. Severus stops then. Al feels fingers press against his jaw, urging. And filled with inebriated hope, he allows Severus to coax his gaze up.

Severus looks … tired. Yes, that's it. Tired, and melancholy. He kisses him softly, no more than a quick brush of lips against lips. It is a sexless, crushing thing, barely registered until it has passed.

It leaves Al equally hopeful and hopeless, and the emotions bounce around inside his head until he can't think straight anymore. Wetting his lips, Al wraps his hand around Severus's retreating waist and yanks hard, and suddenly he has a lap full of half-dressed Severus, pleasantly slim and damp against him. His hair is fragrant still, and the ends of his hair brush coolly against Al's heated cheeks.

And then, before he knows it, he is kissing Severus, and his lips are soft and pliant. It is just a gentle touch of lips, lingering, sweet in its innocence, and monastic. It is an offering: a promise, a gift; it is an unanswered question, the possibilities fragmented and suspended, like a crystal chandelier, broken in chaos. In each meeting of lips, Al can almost feel the glass brush up against his chest, carving deeper and deeper still, until he can't breathe without Severus's hands, his lips, his touch. He feels like a masochist.

Over his lap, Severus is tentative, his body stilled and spine ramrod straight. He permits the kisses and Al's roving palms, his own hands pressed lightly against Al's chest. He breathes heavily though, as if restraining his intrinsic urges. This new passiveness intrigues Al as much as it worries him.

But Al grows bolder, nipping at Severus's bottom lip and darting his fingers beneath the parting fabric to feel warm skin. And, God, it's like a drug. He can't stop his hand from wandering higher and higher: up a knee; across Severus's hot inner thighs; deeper, to the part of his thighs—

"That is _enough_."

A crushing hand wraps tight around his wrist. No longer dreamy, Severus's eyes are cold and flinty; his mouth is a thin, red slash. He squeezes Al's wrist once excruciatingly, and slowly (agonizingly slow!) withdraws Al's hand from his thighs.

Palm slipping, Al trails his fingertips down the soft skin, ticking and teasing. He doesn't want to abandon this warmth and closeness. He _can't_. Not now, when he finally has Severus here, with him.

Resting his palm underneath Severus's knee, Al hitches it high over his waist. And Morgana, the slit _widens_, and the robe slides up Severus's thigh, revealing vanilla skin …

"_Albus_!" Al starts at the bright cry; lowering his gaze, he massages the smooth skin beneath the bent knee. A distraction, something to rein in his shameless needs.

And Severus's breath hitches, and his teeth gaze his kiss-reddened lips; his head tilts back just a little, revealing a long, white column, unmarred and untouched.

And Al stares. Openly, uncaring of rebuke. Wonders: _if this is Severus controlling himself, what is he like uninhibited_? Blinks slowly, dumbly. Smirks, just a little.

He leans forward and nips at Severus's exposed neck, lapping at the salty flesh with the flat of his tongue. Mouths the skin, mapping it with teeth, lips, and tongue, and feels a reddish welt raise beneath his mouth. He nurses at the wound and listens to the soft hitch in Severus's breath, perceptible only with cautious mind.

Reaching forward, Al slips the robe off Severus's shoulder. The fabric pools along his elbow, and all Al sees is soft, pale skin and the angle of a shoulder blade, an elbow. Secrets not-yet explored, things that Al quietly savors. He brushes his fingers against the river bed of Severus's collarbone, feeling bone hard beneath thin skin. His hand falls lower, and—

Then: "Stop." A liquid command, like_ imperius_.

Al obeys, stilling his exploring hands and roving mouth.

Then, slowly, carefully, Severus begins to extricate himself from Al's embrace. The top of his robe slips, revealing one slim shoulder. Al traces it. His finger shakes, and he holds his breath, waiting for another rebukement.

"Wait. Severus—"

Severus sighs then. He seems a hundred thousand years old, as old as the sands of time, as ancient as the very lands they now live on, free from the blistered sins of humanity. "Go to bed, Albus. You do not know what you say."

"But I do! I want you. You, Severus. Here. Now."

"No, you do not."

Al yanks Severus back into his lap; Severus stumbles. His sudden weight knocks Al's breath away, and Al's indignation swells. "Don't presume to tell me what I want. I'm not a child anymore."

Severus exhales loudly. Placing his palms against Al's shoulders, he pushes Al back, creating more space between them.

Al does not like that. Not one bit.

"Yes, you are a child." The other rubs at his left temple, wincing. "Go to bed. Go to sleep, and forget about this night. When you wake, you'll understand that this is nothing but the voices of alcohol and loneliness."

"No I won't."

Severus eyes him sadly. "Yes, you will."

And then: _obliviate_.

And then, fainter: _I'm sorry_.

-0-

On New Years Eve, Severus offers him champagne. Al doesn't like the taste of it, but he drinks enough to please Severus. He doesn't like the prissy, bubbly drink; he wants firewhiskey, or maybe beer instead. When he asks Severus for some brandy, Severus's brow knits, contracting in thought. A moment passes, and then Severus casts an askance glance at him. When Al finally gives him a moue and pleads prettily, Severus gives in and summons the decanter.

Somehow, the brandy tastes of victory.

And he likes it, so he has another glass. Severus eyes him carefully, sipping at his own glass.

"What?" Al asks.

The corners of Severus's mouth turn down. "Perhaps, I should not have given into you." With a flick of his wrist, he summons the decanter. "No more, then. I'd imagine that you're a horrible little monster when you're inebriated."

Al shrugs and tips back his glass. His throat burns, and his belly warms pleasantly. "You'd have to ask James on that one. He took me out once, and everything we speak of it, he bursts out laughing."

"I can see why." Severus is smirking now, but it's not a happy smirk. It's more of a sardonic, introspective smirk.

Al nods once. His glass is empty. Ringing the inside of the glass with his finger, he tastes the remnants, sweeter than the rest of the glass had been.

"Give me more, Severus."

The answer is quick. "No."

"Fine." Al will get it back, some way. He just needs to distract Severus.

Severus, sitting beside him, close enough to feel the slight heat of his fire-warmed body. Severus, in that goddamn dressing robe, the one with the slit that leaves Al unbelievably hard through the night. Severus, who had once looked at him hungrily, like he could take Al there, then.

Suddenly, Al is very, very warm. He shifts, trying to loosen his too-tight pants, and plucks at the collar of his shirt. Severus is staring at him, in a sly, peripheral way. And when he speaks, his voice is smooth and dark and husky, as though he feels the exact same way. As though he's trying to seduce Al (who would be very welcome to said seduction). Everything is starting to feel blurred and muggy.

"What's wrong?"

Al groans. "It's fucking hot in here."

"Ah."

Al takes that as permission to disrobe. Sheds his shirt quickly and unbuttons his trousers.

Severus sighs gently, just a soft, weary exhalation. He shakes his head, and Al draws close.

"What is the correlation," he murmurs gently, "between alcohol and you undressing?" Though his words are soft, his beetle-dark eyes are alit with fire. An almost-maybe memory, dreamy and transparent, presents itself; and, when Al tries for it, it fades into a wisp of not-quite and never-ever.

A warm hand, fingers spread wide, brushes against the dip of his back. Al inhales sharply. Exhales. Then, he whispers back, "Maybe I wouldn't, but I know that you want this, too." The whiskey makes him bold.

Severus's brow crinkles. He looks deeply troubled, and Al reaches up to curl his palm against Severus's keen cheekbone. "Do I now?"

"Yes." No other words are needed.

"Your confidence is rooted in unfounded ground."

"Is it, now?"

Severus huffs and drinks some of his wine. "Yes," he answers after swallowing, "it is."

Humming, Al swings his arm to sling over Severus's shoulders. He nuzzles his cheek against the crook of Severus neck. Severus smells good here, like pine and sandalwood.

"Well then, maybe just a kiss? A kiss won't hurt." A quick grope wouldn't hurt either, but he doubts that Severus will agree to even that.

"No."

And though he sounds resolute, Al can hear the faint tremor passing through his body. "Why not?"

"You're utterly pissed."

"Am I?"

A brief pause. Then, softly: "Yes, Albus, you are."

"Oh." Al kisses Severus's keen cheekbone and places a hand against Severus's jaw. Coaxing him to look, to feel, to respond. Anything. "Does it matter?"

Beneath him, Severus stills. His dark eyes are fathomless, swirling pits of black, cold sorrow. He pushes Al away, until Al is an armslength away.

"Yes, it does."

Al dips his chin and pulls his knees close to his chest. He feels young like this, rejected and scolded. It's an unpleasant feeling.

"And if I wasn't?"

"Wasn't what?" A nonchalant tone, one which Severus has perfected. Clear and crisp, and a bit bored.

"Drunk."

Severus pulls his dressing robe tighter along the thigh and neck. He rises, and looms tall over Al. His face is stony; his beetle-black eyes cut through Al viscerally, leaving anything soft and hopeful torn and broken. "At least then, you wouldn't be forcing yourself upon me."

And then, before Al opens his mouth to respond, he's gone.

-0-

Two nights later, Al comes to Severus's bed. And Severus neither accepts him and neither rejects him; he lets Al slide beneath the covers, and Al begins touching.

Reaching forward, he fingers the clasp around Severus's neck. He wants it off, all of it—every last stitch of fabric. Then, he could have Severus here, now, and there wouldn't be any more excuses. It would be easy then: both of them bared, aroused and eager.

A cool hand settles atop his own, stilling his movements. Sucking in a breath, Al glances at Severus, and the queries posed ready on his lips dry up when he sees Severus's expression.

"Does it not matter that I am dead?" Severus poses softly, and Al can see something deep and dark and pained in his eyes, curdled and sour like sin. Al feels sympathy pangs, soft and delicate like moth wings, and itchy like hundreds of tiny feelers sensing the truth. The moment, fragile as a wounded butterfly, begins to close, and Al pins it.

He kisses Severus soundly on the lips, spreading his legs whore-wide, feeling Severus's heavy erection press hothard against his arse. Fuck, did he want Severus to take him _now_, so hard, fast, rough that he couldn't walk, and his ached all over, and he tasted come in his throat for days …!

Did it matter that Severus was half-dead? No. Right now, he was here, kissing Al, all warm flesh and heartbeat.

Now. Here. With Al.

That's what mattered.

"No. Why should it?" He licks at the hollowed juncture of Severus's neck, and all he tastes is life, salt, and Severus's spicy soap. It's a heady mix. He groans. "You're Severus, and I'm Al. That's all that matters."

"By the gods," Severus murmurs, "you truly are your father's son." He seems awed, and kisses Al fiercely, all tongue and teeth and savage want.

Al laughs, a deep, rolling sound that fills the cavity of his chest with blooming warmth. Already, his fingers are unlacing, unbuttoning, and disrobing in swift succession; soon, Severus's milk-blue skin is revealed, as pale and as soft as a babe's, and marred only by one long, dark line.

Al lifts the other's arm to the light. The pitch snake and faceless skull have not faded in death, it seems. They harbor a resonant magic that curdles in the pit of his stomach. He swallows. Severus exhales sharply.

They both are still for a beat, one recalling past tales, the other remembering a life long, long ago.

Severus is the first to speak. His voice is husky, and a bit weak; he clears his throat before starting anew. "It is a wretched thing," he murmurs.

Al nods, brushing his thumb over the Mark. The skin is hot there and slightly raised. It hurts to touch it, and he can only imagine that it must be a near-constant torment to Severus. But when he glances up at Severus through a hazy film of lashes (as though the Slytherin wouldn't notice!), he sees peace, and gentle respite.

A frown tugs at his lips. "Doesn't it hurt?"

Severus's hand cups his cheek and turns Al's face towards him. He kisses Al softly, a whisper of lips and promise. "Not anymore."

"Oh."

Severus hums, and suddenly, the Mark doesn't matter a damned bit. Not when he's lying supine, naked, his cock hard and hot against Al's stomach. Not when Al can have him—all of him.

It is a justifiable indulgence, and Al has never been good at resisting temptations.

Severus twists, and then Al's beneath him, reveling in the heavy weight of another man, in the hot brand of a hard dick pressed tight against his body. Gasping, Al pulls Severus even closer, and then closer still.

But it is not enough.

So he tilts his head back and begs Severus to fuck him, to take him now, please, please, because he needed it so bad, so fucking bad … And Severus groans and presses sinister kisses against Al's neck, asking where the lube is.

"Drawer," Al manages to gasp out, because surely Severus must know this, must know it because of all the times that Al wanked to the maybe-could-be of _this moment_.

Severus rushes, growling and throwing the drawer's contents to the floor. He looks ready to upend the poor nightstand. "Are you—"

"Here." Al pushes Severus's grasping hands aside. His own are trembling. He riffles through the contents quickly, feeling Severus kiss at the nape of his neck. Gasps, a little bit, at the unexpected tenderness. Finds the lube. Shoves it into Severus's hands.

Al feels something nudge at his arse, and presses up against it. Groans when it pop through the ring of muscle, and cries out when Severus's fingers tread over something wonderful. Winces a bit, when there's two, stretching him wide; but eventually, the ache softens, and he lurches into the touch. He arches forward when Severus greedily sucks a nipple into his mouth, and pulls at the soft hair urgently.

"More," he begs, thrusting against Severus's clever fingers. "Please, Severus—fuck me!" Because Severus is flushed and his lips are dark and his hair is horribly askew and Al needs him _now_.

Severus groans and places Al's leg over his shoulders. And then there's something blunt and hot, pressing against his entrance. Pressing, stretching, and then—Al curls into Severus's body, biting at his lip. Severus trembles against him, but does not move.

Then Al moves, circling his hips, and Severus takes that as a cue and thrusts deeper. He pulls out slowly, and thrust in again, balls deep. And then, the pain takes on the edge of pleasure, and Al starting pleading, because he needs it harder and deeper, and Severus says that he's gonna fuck Al so deep, and then, too soon—

Al comes, and Severus, too. And it's over.

Al is a sweaty mess. He gasps for breath, head pressed back against a pillow. Severus is soft now, and pulls out; Al winces at that. He feels utterly exhausted. Beside him, Severus closes his eyes.

Al looks away. And looks back.

Then, before he changes his mind, he nudges closer to Severus, brushes a kiss over the man's salty skin, and huddles into his side of the bed.

He's afraid to ask for anything more.

But moments later, arms embrace him. Startled, Al twists around, and Severus kisses him once, softly and lingeringly. And Severus smiles at him, a real smile, and Al can't help but to smile back.

Al settles back into the bed, back into Severus, and drifts off into sleep. No worries haunt him, because all is well.

-0-

There are four things important to Al.

The touch of a man's body, warm and hard, pressed against his own.

The dizzying heights of drugs, coupled with the soothing burn of alcohol.

The nights spent awake, dreaming of Severus in his bed, willing to love him back.

The last sip of tea, when it is cool, and the sweet dregs of condensed sugar swirling around the bottom of the cup.

And nothing else matters.

Nothing.

-0-

Al wakes to a lightness, skimming through the tattered cream curtains. The bed sheets are warm and soft, and everything has a dream-like intensity, like the soft-shelled edge of frosted glass. He burrows deeper into his cocoon of sheets, until only a ruffle of dark hair shows.

He still dreams of Severus's touch, and his kisses and tender hands. His mind is peppered with small snippets of last night: the soft flush of Severus's arousal, pink across his chest and cheeks … hands, curled tight against his own until fingertips kissed palm, and palm kissed back … the slowdeep rock of penetration … the shock of another, deep within him … Severus, curled up beside him, brushing back his unkempt hair …

Then, he realizes—something is wrong.

Severus isn't here.

And it's too bright. Severus's drapes screen away the sunlight; it had left their bodies ghostly soft and muted against the pitch, the candlelight and moonlight shunned in favor of other senses: the skeinish knobs of a spine; lips pressed damp against salty skin, tasting; the smooth arch and slide of hips and back. Taste and touch and ragged breath.

They made love in Severus's quarters, not Al's. And yet, here Al was, alone in his bed, left with a sore arse and a bitter taste on his lips.

Severus must have moved him, late last night.

Al grimaces, buries his head in a pillow (which, somehow, smells of Severus's parsley and violet soap), and tries to shut out the light, which glints on his bed and arms and hair. It is too bright. Too, too bright for today.

Eventually, Al pulls the covers off his head and shoves his feet into some ridiculous silk slippers. Forces himself to move, despite the urge to crawl back into bed and stay there forever. Wrapping himself in his sheets, he heads off to find Severus.

He's not in his lab, which is an oddity. Not in his chambers, either. Al traverses through half the house before finding the man in some small, obscure office. Severus barely spares him a glance when he enters, as though he were nothing more than some random fuck.

Suddenly, all of Al's ire bubbles to the surface like an unstable potion. He knew that last night was only about sex, but never had thought that Severus would treat him like this afterwards. It cuts deeply, and, a wounded creature, he strikes out.

"Why did you leave me?" he cries out, clutching the thin white sheets closer. Like a second skin, a futile sort of armor. The edges flutter against his cold feet. "_Why_, Severus?"

The elder sighs. Placing aside his quill, he sighs and tips back his head. He stares lazily into Al's eyes—an act, surely. His mind is sealed up tighter than ever before; Al encounters a barrier as soon as he tries to infiltrate it.

"That night was of nothing but mutual satisfaction. I … apologize if I have unwittingly misled you; it was not my intent."

Al freezes for a moment. His blood slurps and sloshes inside his veins, and all seems muted and soft. He feels sick, like he's going to hurl, or maybe faint. When he speaks, his words echo strangely, like fractured day inside a prism-lit room. "You're lying."

Severus's brow quirks; his face is blank, quick eyes dulled. "Am I?" He turns back to his research. "I have no time for insolent brats. If you are to be my bedmate, you must submit to my desires and my needs, not your own. If you wish for a saccharine, dulcet lover, then return to your own kind. Gryffindors are better suited for such poppycock."

Al swallows. Something sharp and heavy rolls, and he grabs onto the desk to remain steady. "So that's it?"

The other turns aside. "So it seems."

"Oh."

A moment of stillness, draped and hung spider-silk strong between them, holds the weight of their many Slytherin secrets—then, it shatters.

Al strides to the desk and shoves the scrolls, parchments, and tomes off the walnut surface. Before Severus could flare, he slings his body onto his lover's legs and spreads his own thighs; he presses his body against the others, and can feel the betraying hardness of an erect cock.

Pressing his forehead against Severus's, his fingertips cradling the man's keen cheeks, he breathes, "So that's it, then. I can deal with that." And he could, maybe, if he allowed Severus's rules. It would be better than nothing, after all.

Maybe. If Al was resolute, and kept his heart wind-worn and abandoned, it would work. Maybe. Maybe. It is his mantra, and Al makes himself repeat it enough, perhaps 'maybe enough' will become 'is enough'.

It would have to be enough. It has to be.

Quickly, sooner than Al would have liked, they are both naked. He already knows that this will be a quick, hard fuck, and he's not sure if he would prefer slow loving making instead. He can't think, not with Severus kissing him harshly, their teeth clinking and tongues thrusting, and Severus's cock hot and firm against his thigh.

Not when Severus has parted the long, dark robes, and the sheets have been left abandoned on the stone floor, a slope of cream, and his foot is still tangled in the bed sheets, the exact ones that he and Severus made love on, and suddenly: _it's not enough_. Nothing is. He wants to feel Severus inside his body, embossed on his soul, pressed against his skin, swimming through his blood … with him. Always.

And suddenly, he feels very empty, and very, very alone.

Arching against Severus's body, Al wriggles away. His mouth aches, and he can't stop gasping for breath. "Inside me," he begs, grasping blindly for Severus's hand; when he finds it, he drags the long fingers down his vertebra, feels them brush against the top of his arse. "Please. _Now_."

And Severus says nothing. Only summons lube and works two fingers into Al's eager channel, until Al can't stand it a moment longer, and then—_oooohh_! A long, slow slide, the pain-pleasure burn of Severus's cock filling him. So goddamn full, and Severus is inside of him, and it's almost too good—and then Severus pushes him back against the desk and thrusts in deep, and Al _wails_. Like a fucking banshee. And Merlin, is it good!

It still hurts some, from yesterday, but then the burns meld, and Al can't stop from crying out, from screaming, and it's too soon but he's coming and Severus is too and fuckingshite it's _perfect_. Here. Now.

Al melts bonelessly against Severus's torso, his overly large hands curled tight between their chests. Severus sighs, and Al stretches out a hand to wipes his damp hair away from his forehead. He kisses the salty skin, wishing that this moment could last forever. That he could pin it like a butterfly, and always be able to look back on it.

Maybe, if it was like this, it wouldn't be so bad.

But then Severus straightens his spine. He pushes Al off his lap, and suddenly, everything seems _that_much colder.

Wrapping his arms around his body, Al looks at Severus for a long moment, and then picks up the white sheet and leaves, spunk slipping down his thighs and cooling against his abdomen. His heart chokes him.

He feels dirty and used, like a whore, and he knows that it shouldn't be like _this_. And he tries to tell himself that it's fine, that he asked for it like that, that he wanted it like that … But no matter what he tries to tell himself, he knows that this—this _thing_with Severus will never be enough.

Never.

-0-

And it's not enough. Though Al throws himself at Severus nightly, nothing changes. He still craves Severus like a drug. He feels hollow without him, almost vacant.

The days are long. Al wakes as soon as the bed begins to chill. By then, the far-off rattle of a Muggle shower has stopped. Severus emerges from the bathroom, dripping and flushed, and Al drags him back to bed. Then, sex is a hungry, dirty thing; neither holds enough patience to make it long and slow. That's for later, when Al kisses Severus against the shower wall and they're both wet and sleepy with sate.

The afternoons are a void. Al sleeps some and wanders some. Sometimes, he watches Severus slave over a bubbling caldron, mincing and stirring. He doesn't do that often; too many times they end up fucking on the cold floor, their clothes hastily thrown aside.

Sometimes, Severus leaves the premises. He wanders the back alleys of the Wizarding world, cloaked in illusions and spells. Occasionally, he will tell Al tidbits of the outside world, one that Al has not seen in months. Sequestered in Severus's rooms, he curls himself around a sandalwood-scented pillow, missing only the touch of Severus's hand, the sound of his voice, the rare boom of his resonant laughter.

Al hates those days the most. He feels stupid and awkward, waiting around for Severus like some hopeless, love-struck chit, but … he can't leave. Because then, Severus might never return, and it would be just some dream.

And he couldn't take that.

Tonight, Severus, hollow-eyed and weary, returns from a day spent crawling through the muck. He smells awful, and Al immediately pushes him into the lily-throat bathtub. Settling in front of Severus, he absently washes away the grime and stench, feeling Severus grow hard as his hands stray lower and lower still. Teasing. Al is desperate for the taste of sweet skin and come.

He sucks Severus off that night, his mouth stretched and aching afterwards. Severus jerks him off, and then, once Al is finished, pushes Al to the edge of the bed.

It is now routine. Al knows what is to be expected, if he is to keep Severus close for another day or two. He wipes at the come on his chest and stomach, grabs his robe, and leaves to sleep in his own cold bed.

It is never enough. But it is better than nothing.

-0-

It starts slowly.

Once, when Al comes for Severus's embrace and mouth and cock, he was turned away. The next week, Severus fucks Al, and once he comes, pushes Al away. He doesn't even look at Al afterwards; he tosses a sheet at Al and vacates the room. The next night, he fucks Al violently, to the point where pleasure became pain. A week later, the once weak malice is palpable, thick and murky.

And Al refuses to stand by like some dumb doll and take this He refuses to give his body, even when Severus asks nicely, kissing his cheek. Resolute, he only asks, "Why?"

And Severus pretends to not understand, pretends that all is well. The fucking, lying sack of shite.

And Al begins yelling, the fire of his anger raging now, saying things that he would never have said before. He feels cumbersome, the words sticking and clinging to his mouth.

Asks why Severus won't make him come, why he won't even look at him now, why he won't treat him with sparing kindness anymore?

Why won't he dare love Al back?

And that_ son of a bitch_just sits back in his armchair, sipping coolly at his brandy. As though it were any other night—like before, when they would stay up late taking animatedly, and Al would try to seduce Severus.

"And how is that anything of consequence?" Severus finally queries.

And goddamnit, Al was never good at expressing things. Plucking the glass from Severus's hands, he hurls it at the wall. It smashes into tiny bits, decorating the carpeted floors with jagged ice and shimmering diamonds.

At that, Severus looks positively _livid_.

And Al finally has his complete attention. He inhales sharply through his nose, trying to rein in his anger; it seeps into his voice though, tingeing it with desperation and sorrow.

"Why, Severus? Tell me why the fuck you're acting like this."

The other is staring at the glass ruins at the foot of the parallel wall. He doesn't look at Al, but instead watches as the brandy seeps deeply into the carpet.

Al grabs at his shoulders. "_Why_, Severus?"

A beat passes. Once, twice, thrice.

Then, with cutting viciousness: "You did this to me."

"What the hell did_ I _do?"

Severus eyes glint darkly with rage as he stands, chest pressed against Al's. Magic swirls about the room, ruffling scrolls and pages. "You brought me back," he bites out, glaring at Al with all the hatred contained within the fibers of his body.

Then, pushing Al aside, he stalks to the door.

It slams shut with a bang.

-0-

Two days later, Severus finally returns. Four days after that, they finally agree to speak like adults. They sit on the couch, backs ramrod straight. It is dark out, possibly midnight or later. Severus smells of grime and sewage; there is a smear of something dark across his cheekbone and mud clinging to his hair.

He is the first to speak. Al vows to bite his tongue against rash comments.

"You don't understand. What you did—it was a task for the gods, not men. I shouldn't be here. I don't belong here, and I feel it every moment of every day; I feel as though I am dying all over again, my life leeched away, back into the earth." He settles against the sofa. He gathers Al's fists in his hands and slowly uncurls them until they lay open, spread flat like a sacrificial altar. On it, Al's heart throbs raw.

Severus's voice turns soft, no more than a puff of breath. "Please, Albus. Return me."

And Al looks at Severus, and knows that all his words are true—no, more than true. They are The Truth, the one that he has been avoiding for so long—but something fragile crumples inside at the thought of sending Severus away. The moment spirals, and the world tilts, and all feels as lost as a butterfly, wings cruelly broken and scaled.

He knows this, and now, he sees Severus. The dark eyes were no longer brightened by wit, but were resplendent with pain. His lover's hands are very, very cold, and milky-blue. Dying, dying, dead blue. The veins are dark, and Al traces them with a fingertip.

No. He—he can't accept this, not … not now, not_ Severus_. It's not fair—he won't accept it!

Al gasps. He clutches to the desk, his only anchor in this new unknown. "No," he whispers slowly, feeling Severus's sluggish pulse beneath his fingers. _Notrightnotrightnotright_! "I … I can't."

"You cannot, or you refuse?"

"I refuse. I won't do this to you—to us!" Al strikes angrily at Severus, gripping his solemn robes until his knuckles smart. _It is not enough_. Everything … it all seems muted, words twisted. "Why are you doing this? You won't even give us a shot, Severus. This could work!"

Severus shoves Al away. He falls to the floor, and sees a silhouetted man in blue, the shivery moonlight dimmed by tattered curtains. In the silence, he imagines a cold, Slytherin sneer, befitting to the ruthless chill of winter. The floor is rough against his palms.

In the stillness, Severus turns.

In the stillness, Al speaks.

"_Why_?" A soft, broken cry, and Al's voice wobbles, and he hates how pathetic he sounds in that moment. Like a little lost child, left behind without another.

Severus says nothing, and that hurts more than cruel words. Pivoting smartly on his heel, he leaves Al on the floor, cold and alone.

-0-

In a half-dreaming daze, Al feels the bed slant when Severus crawls into it. He swallows past the thickening lump in his throat, and edges away from the cool, searching hand. A high, nasal inhalation.

"Please, Albus." The wraithlike voice is thin, high, and soft. Severus has lost his deep timbre, as he has lost his human warmth, and garnered only pain.

Al buries his face into the pillow, drying his wet cheeks against the warm fabric; he imagines that he is alone, lost at sea, and drowning beneath the blue sea. It feels like he will drown. Something cutting curdles within his chest, coagulating and growing like a tumor, caused by his hopeless, lovelorn state. Squeezing his eyes shut, Al focuses on breathing. It's difficult—at least, more so than it should be.

Severus's palm grazes his back, and Al starts. The cold touch electrifies him.

He sucks in a quick breath.

Severus hums softly.

Then: "I'm sorry Al. I am, but I cannot continue to exist like this. I remain only now because you refuse to release me from this body; it cages me, and my spirit rebels against it. If … if I could, I would stay, but …"

Al twists and catches Severus's hand. He presses the splayed fingers against his bare chest, and breathing becomes a bit easier.

"Not even for me?"

A world-wearied sigh. The barest of breathes. Severus bends forward, and as he kisses the flesh over Al's heart, Al can make out the barest of silhouettes, pitch against night.

The man turns his cheek into the human warmth. He mumbles the words against Al's skin, and Al feels them reverberate through his body, sinking through skin, through muscle, through ligaments, to settle deep within his bones; the words, embossed—imprinted—on his body, pulses hotly within his veins and coils within his essence.

Al hears nothing, and he hears everything. Though the words have no sound, they grate against his mind.

Throwing off Severus arm, pushing him away, Al curls up on the far side of the bed. He presses his fists against his mouth, and be force of will alone, seals his lips against the incessant screams building within. Already, he feels bereft. Of love, of joy, of anything good and great.

Severus does nothing for some time. Eventually, when Al settles back into a half-aware state, he rouses himself, leaving the bedchamber. His sheets cool, and the imprint of his body settles out.

It was as if he had never been there. As though he had never existed.

-0-

Severus had not lied. He never has, at least, not really.

He wakes Al with two finger inside Al's channel, pumping in and out. Fucks him long and deep and hard, whispering soft words into Al's ear, things that Al isn't quite sure that he ever said. Things gentle, little sweet nothings. Things maybe-possibly imagined.

Afterwards, he coaxes Al into sleep. Then, he slips the Resurrection stone off Al's finger.

And in the next instant, he's no longer there.

Al wakes to a cold bed in a cold room in a cold house. And he knows, because the damned ring is sitting prettily on the fucking nightstand, and there's not a goddamn thing that Al can do about it!

The first day, he shouts and screams until his throat is raw. He burns that beautiful brocaded robe, the one that he tried to seduce Severus in, months ago. He throws Severus's prized caldron out the window, denting it horribly. He smashes potion ingredients, and the vials fall to the floor, oozing frog eyes, bat's blood, and dragon scales; the noxious fumes fill the house, and fire burns in Al's veins through the night.

The second day, he cries. And not the big, fat tears, but small, reluctant tears. Like he's restraining himself, trying to be strong.

By dinner, the soft crying stops and the ugly sobs begin.

And after that … it's all just a daze. Night passes into day, day into night. During the times in between, starlight dribbles down between the heavy folds of the curtains. Al sleeps for days there. On Severus's bed, the cloying sweetness of decay perfuming the sheets. Beneath the rot, he swears that he can smell Severus: pine and sandalwood, vanilla and earth.

When he dreams, it is of the past, things that he should have done.

Dishes pile high in the kitchen. Everything falls into waste. A few days pass. Then another two.

Finally, Al can't stand it any longer.

He leaves.

He does not look back.

**PART TWO**:

Once more, the stone is cool against his fingertips. He turns it one way, then the other, and sets it in a blood circle. The words feel too practiced on his tongue, the second sliding out before he thinks of the first.

Things start to turn hazy, fading a bit, and then Al shakes his head—and they are solid once more. He reaches for the waning moon, staring up at the ceiling. It is getting lighter; through the tattered curtains, Al sees the heavens turn.

He breathes deeply, and steps into the circle.

-0-

It is dawn.

The gray light filters through the tattered curtains. Motes float, bright specks in the pitch, and the dust makes Al's nose itch. It is chill, and the house reeks with the sweet rot of death.

In a fit of nostalgia, Al slips of his shoes. The carpet is thick, warm against his bare feet, and he curls his toes into the plush fabric. As he breathes deeply, he fills his lungs with the familiar smells of vanilla and burning wood.

He is home.

Slowly, he creeps down the hallway, letting his hands linger against the curled banister, the bent door of the kitchen, an empty picture frame. Nothing moves. Nothing starts, or watches him. It is still as death.

It is as if nothing has changed.

Pulse quickening, Al cannot bridle his desperation. His footsteps grow quicker, louder, and he opens every door swiftly. Through the kitchen, through the sparse dining room, through the workroom. Nothing. _Nothing_.

Upstairs now, in the west wing. Opens the first bedroom, then the second, then the third, fourth, fifth—Severus's own bedroom—

Nothing, nothing, _nothing_! He presses his fist against his lips to hold in the screams.

Tries the east wing, running now. Al's feet pound against the threadbare carpets. He is on the verge of shouting. Nearly yanks the first door off its hinges, and finds an empty room. Tries the next, and finds another unfurnished room.

Opens Al's own bedroom. Stops. Stares.

Breathes.

The dim length of the room is shadowed, corners shaded heavily, candlelight smothered beneath a diffusing spell. A man sleeps on a worn sofa, his hands curled against his cheek like a slumbering child. He snores softly. Sheaves of paper, wounded with angrily hatched comments, are scattered across the floor. The soft candlelight lights a portion of the man's face, and Al can see an eyelid; a mane of dark, thick hair; a spread of fine artist hands. A chiaroscuro. All seems slow and soft and maybe-perhaps—until the man shifts, and then—

A sharp pang reverberates within; Al gasps, clutching at his chest. He falls to his knees. _Thud._

The man starts, gasping, wand in hand. He jumps to his feet. Sees Al. Shouts something, something loud, and it's like the rush of the breaking surf, and he can't think can't hear can't move because Severus, _His Severus,_ is _here. _

The knowledge is nirvana, manna to his soul, and his weary mind slows. Severus draws closer, and Al is sure that he is gaping, staring at Severus as though he is God incarnate. The wand is raised, pointed, and Severus's lips move, and Al feels a rush of power binding him. He can't move. His wand flies out of his pocket and into Severus's hand.

And he doesn't care.

Not really. Not at all, actually.

He's _here_.

It worked.

And he's here and Al's here, and he should really have joined some faith, because then he would have some entity to pray to. To thank. But he doesn't, so all he does is whisper, thank you, because in some ways, Severus is his religion.

The younger man stops and tilts his head. He frowns.

"Please," Al begs him. The word is garbled, torn from his throat. It hurts too much to speak. "P-please, Severus."

Severus approaches. He kneels by Al's side, and Al reaches out frantically, blindly, until he grasps Severus's hand. Severus's perplexed face looms high above him, and at the confusion, Al can't help but smile.

But then, Severus has his wand in hand, and—

All becomes black.

-0-

Al wakes suddenly, gasping and tearing at his clothes, screaming loud, louder, louder. He can't stop, can't help it, and something is pressing harshly against his mouth, suffocating him, and he struggles, fighting, and—

"Shh … it's okay."

Al's eyes pop open. His hands claw at the air, grasping wildly, urgently—until Severus takes his palm in his hands and smoothes Al's hair back. Slowly … slowly … Al finds his breath.

"You're fine." The deep, smooth voice is low and gentle, as though Severus were soothing a confused beast. Perhaps Al is a beast in his mind; he only knows of this man, and cares for little else.

Al nods quickly. He feels as though he were in a dream, with only this Severus as an anchor; or maybe he is falling. He twists the fingers of his other hand in the coarse sheets to steady himself.

It is strange to compare this man-boy to the Severus that he knew. He must be young, perhaps fifteen or sixteen; the suppleness in his cheeks and wiry limbs betrays his true age. His eyes are bright, not with keen suspicion, but with concern. He clutches back at Al's desperate hand.

This is not the broken man that Al once knew. There is no Mark that Al can see, and there are no horrible scars marring the pale skin. There is no severe self-possession causing this man to restrain himself from life. There are no dark shadows from nightmares, no ticks from _crucio_, no chill from death.

He will never know that man again, whom he had loved for both his darkness and impossible righteousness. This new Severus is extremely different than his older counterpart, more so than Al had imagined.

He will never become the older Severus, that broken man.

Desolation and joy overfill Al, and he finds that he can't speak. Words cling to his dry throat. He clings to the young Severus, pressing himself closer to the warm body. Al stares at him for some time, mouth agape and eyes wide. Beneath his gaze, Severus squirms, as though he has never been looked at with wonder and love.

But Al can change that.

He sighs. Squeezes his eyes shut. Breathes, for just a moment.

When he opens them, this new, strange Severus is scrutinizing him. Nothing does he say, words lying whole and unbroken in the graveyard of silence.

Al, feeling the familiar press of _Legilimency_, tears his gaze away; his downcast eyes shield his memories from this Severus's perusal, those of all dark and twisted, sensual and torrid, light and puerile, soft and unbroken origins. He could only imagine this man's response. He is too young, and not as war-worn as the man Al once knew. He wonders if this might be a good thing, if it will be their redemption.

He swallows and raises himself onto his elbows. Sticks out his hand, Gryffindor-brave. His arm shakes as he speaks.

"Hi. I'm Al."

Severus raises his eyebrow, beetle-bright eyes narrowed, lips pursed. He glances at the outstretched hand, and slowly, he takes it. Al can't contain the sheer bliss bubbling through his veins, golden and shimmery; he feels joy-drunk, love-drunk, like his skin is unraveling at the edges … and it's _perfect._

"Severus."

Al smiles broadly at the gesture, feeling like there's a light seeping from his skin. And this Severus smiles faintly, almost hesitantly.

His smile is beautiful.

The starlight glows silver in this dying house, hidden beneath the folds of sheets and makeshift curtains, wilting on the doorstep. But when Al breathes in the air, in that moment, he tastes the starlight and moonlight, and beneath that, hope.

_Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know that they are happy._

- Eskimo Proverb

**FIN**


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